


Beurre Manié

by Shenanigans



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Coda, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 03:39:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/844870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shenanigans/pseuds/Shenanigans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A coda to the ladder scene. Content some readers may find disturbingly Hannigram. Written on the fly and unbetaed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beurre Manié

The room felt close, warm as the inside of a breath. Hannibal leaned back against his desk, wood cutting into his palm as Will paced restlessly around the space. His pale blue Henley shoved around his forearms and vest open. It’s a cheap spun wool that eats the light without reflecting. He’d opened the door, aware of the cloud of frantic need that cloyed around Will’s skin, tousling his hair and bruising the fragile skin under his eyes. His hands were freshly washed, the scent of cheap store bought soap harsh against Hannibal’s nose, but underneath he was male, spiced, and hot like fever. It tasted like red on Hannibal’s tongue, so he tucked it behind his teeth, narrowing his eyes as he moved for Will to brush past- already speaking. The door was nearly silent when he closed it, the soft press of privacy.

He’d listened about the scene, the loss of time, the manic chatter of Will’s teeth in the telling. He moved, careful as a serenade to his desk and turned, curling his fingers at the edge. “What kind of savage delusions does this killer have?” The question was simple, perfunctory.

Will moved, touching the edge of the ladder before leaning back against it, head tilted against the rung. Hannibal focused on the perfect dip of his adam’s apple as he swallowed before speaking. “This wasn’t savage,” he started, pushing words through his teeth.

Hannibal waited, a perfect point of calm. Will still had blood on his sleeve, staining the fabric dark rust. He wet his lips and listened.

Will’s hair curled dark at the temples, jaw working as he found the right words. “It was lonely.” Hannibal watched the turn of his wrists as he gripped the ladder. Will’s spine arched, weight tipping onto the balls of his feet as the clasp of his watch rattled against the lacquer. “Desperate- sad.” Hannibal could feel the pause, strung out between them like a thrown lifeline waiting to be caught and moored. He made a note to learn the proper knots. “I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror,” he began again, voice low and urgent around the flat tone. Will was bleeding out, the bruise purpling and spreading around his heart with the stain of need. His eyes tipped up, wide and frantic, drowning. “I looked right… through me.”

Hannibal would never tire of the way Will’s face twisted up, coiling tight to explode with emotion like it was too much for his skin, leaving him saturated and painfully taut under his skin. He pushed off the desk, steps carrying him closer and he caught the way Will inhaled like surfacing, body moving with the want of recognition as Hannibal spoke. “You have to honestly confront your limitations with what you do,” he started, lifting an abortive hand that he tucked under the drape of his jacket into the pocket of his slacks. “And how it affects you.”

The room shocked with electric ire and he could feel the way Will bristled. His mouth curled into a snarl, words slipping sanguine over his lips as his knuckles went white in the grip. “If by limitations you mean the difference between sanity and insanity,” he began, turning his eyes up to hold Hannibal’s gaze. He was growing stronger in his fear, finding purpose and solace in the direct gaze. “Then I don’t accept that.”

Just as quickly it was broken, his eyes turned down. Hannibal wanted to touch his chin, tilt his head up to push the words into the forefront of his mind as he spoke. He settled instead for leaning closer. Now Will would be able to feel the heat of him as Hannibal could taste the scent of his skin. It was rich and salted, wanting. “Then what do you accept?”

”That I know what kind of crazy I am and this isn’t this kind of crazy!” There was a wetness to the words, like unshed tears of panic. It was the dry wracking sobs of a man clutching his pillow kept quiet in the careful dialogue between colleagues. The hitching plea came next in a barrage of words. “This could be seizures. This could be a tumor- uh-a blood clot-“

”I can recommend a neurologist,” Hannibal interrupted smoothly, wresting the control back. He was gratified by the flicker of gratefulness that widened Will’s eyes, softened his mouth around a breath. “But,” he continued, eyes narrowing as he attacked, words breaking against the other man’s resolve. “If it isn’t physiological, then you have to accept that what you struggle with is mental illness.” He tilted his head, holding the gaze and unwilling to back down on this. He remained until the fight left Will’s jaw, shoulders slumping with the weight of possibility. His head fell back, thump audible in the space as his chest heaved. He nodded.

Hannibal nodded once in return, a blink and he softened his tone. “Will, you have to surrender the idea of control.” His voice pitched lower, soothing after the sting of the verbal slap. “You can no more control the workings of your mind than you can control the light switch on the wall during a power outage.”

Will gave him a rueful smile, handing it to him the way he would offer a cup of coffee. It was offhand and remarkably beautiful in its despair. He lifted a hand, rubbing at his eyes under the frames of his glasses, fingers tense and wrist tight. He thrummed with misspent energy, the fight bleeding out of him in palpable waves. It licked at Hannibal, pressed against the skin of his neck like curious fingers. “Acceptance.” It was a bitter whisper around the curve of that smile. Hannibal wanted to feel the slick of it- sure for just a moment that it would cut without pain like the sharpest of blades.

”Yes,” Hannibal answered. He stood sure, tall and broad shouldered in the brown suit, tie broad and lustrous in the half light thrown by his desk lap. He could see the way his shadow smoothed over Will’s frame, curling around his edges and throwing the dark tint of blood black. “Without acceptance there is no surrender. Without surrender, there will be no change. It is a precarious dichotomy of the human spirit.” He paused then, eyes catching the hitch in Will’s breathing and that the other man hadn’t moved, hadn’t fled the closeness. Hannibal cultivated it in touches. A brush of contact, the careful invasion of his space until Will no longer shifted aside to contain, and the curve of his fingers against the breadth of Will’s shoulder were all choreographed. He was a safe place. He was trust. “It will be your anchor.” He tilted his head slightly, turning his weight at the center to press closer, loosely held hand brushing against the worn denim of Will’s thigh.

”Am I adrift?” Will asked, voice quiet and silver like smoke. It was a question, but one the other man already knew the answer to. Hannibal watched as he wet his lips, watched Will’s gaze flicker from over Hannibal’s shoulder, to his mouth, and finally-daring- back to his eyes. “Do you see me?”

There was a moment when Hannibal could have stopped. A moment that was fragile and tentative as spider silk drifting between them. Instead, he smiled. The soft edged one he saved just for Will, barely more than a tilt at the corners of his mouth. “You are my friend, Will.” He turned his hand, thumb slipping along the thick seam of denim like scar tissue- rubbing the edge against the side of his knuckle as he held those wide eyes. “I can’t help but watch.”

It could have been lightning or simply a man slipping under water, but when Will tilted his head back, eyes going heavy and half lidded around the startled flush- Hannibal wanted it to last for hours. It was beautiful, crystalline and fragile as steel in the way Will’s hand moved like the quick strike of a killer to grip his wrist. The way Will’s breathing went ragged, soft edged around a sound so quiet it might have been a plea before he found his words. He gritted them, chewed on them and swallowed around it before the tremble could be felt. “Is this…” he cut off with a clack of teeth when Hannibal’s hand moved higher, cupping the shape of him against the fly of his jeans. “Is this how you treat your friends?” There was a humor behind it, lost under the stilted delivery, but Hannibal heard it.

He leaned close, nose grazing along the stubble at Will’s sharp jaw and further back to the soft curve of his ear. “The interesting ones.” He squeezed, surgical and precise, eyes flicking to watch the way Will licked his lips, repetitive like he would eat at Hannibal’s mouth, desperate for the silence brought by a kiss.

Will wanting was delicious, his body moving in a slow tortured rock, pace controlled as Hannibal pressed close. He could feel the way the other man went tight, taut in the tensing of thigh against his, hand caught between them. He savored the breathless bark of need at the touch of teeth. He lingered in the gnawed moan when he tipped his hand to push past the waist of his jeans. His fingers spread wide, tucking into the elastic of his boxers. Will was hot there, dark and dangerous with the rasp of wiry curls before the slippery smear of his cock. Hannibal stroked, whispering soft words of praise as he touched his tongue to the beat of Will’s pulse.

He felt him harden against his palm, working him with precise touches until he bowed, spine arching and urging his hips to rock. The air between them was damp, breaths caught close and the tangle of Will’s hair smearing against his temple. He tasted need. He rolled the sharp prickle of stubble against his lips, his tongue, hearing it rasp against his teeth. His wrist worked. Will moaned. Will trembled. Will grasped at him, pushed onto the balls of his feet and breathless as he scrambled for something real, something that was his. 

Hannibal gave it to him.

Will came with a bitten lip and the complete stillness of a caught rabbit, heart pounding wildly at his pulse point and skin flushed blotchy. Hannibal leaned back, watching the pleasure blown beauty of his pupils before lifting his other hand to touch the faint gloss of drawn blood from the inside of Will’s lip. He held the gaze before looking down. It was a curious thing, come hot as blood on his fingers and the coppery scent of life on his thumb. He blinked once, eyes almost black in the shadow he cast before taking it into his mouth. Will tasted like life and hope. Will tasted alive.

He pulled his hand from the trap of denim, stepping back and plucking the pocket square from his lapel and wiping his fingers neatly. He tilted his head, measuring as he watched Will recover, breathing evening out. “Acceptance,” he said, voice rich and low with something that was almost the honey thick of desire. “Is the answer to all that ails you.”

The office wouldn’t smell of sex, the ceiling too high and the room too large, but he smiled and turned to allow Will his space. “I…” Hannibal didn’t have to turn to see the way Will’s fingers pushed into his hair, the way he was drawing himself back together like picking up clothes from the floor. “I’m Will Graham. It’s 8:23.” Hannibal turned, smile wide and proud. “I’m alive.”


End file.
